


a soldier's return

by mwestbelle



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Declarations Of Love, Ficlet, Historical, Love Confessions, M/M, Prompt Fill, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 11:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8577250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mwestbelle/pseuds/mwestbelle
Summary: Bucky has returned from the war, and he will not see Steve.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Moving some tumblr fills over to AO3!

Bucky had been home for weeks, and Steve had not seen hide nor hair of him. It felt inconceivable, that at last they were on the same continent again, separated by mere miles, and yet, Bucky might as well still be at war. It was an uncharitable thought, and one that Steve tried to press down deep inside his chest each time he took the familiar ride to the Barnes estate.

When he first got word that Bucky had returned, he was in the saddle within the hour. His horse Star has never been fast, was in fact chosen for her gentle and docile nature and the relative assurance that she wouldn’t throw him and leave him broken and feeble along the side of the road. But he pushed her to her top speed that day, riding a path that he hadn’t been on for near a year. He’d swung down, handing off the reins to the Barnes’ stableboy, and half-jogged his way up to the main house. He was winded by the time he got to the door, had to pause to recover his breath before presenting himself to the butler. 

He was led to the parlor where he waited, pacing with anxious enthusiasm knotted in his belly. He and Bucky had regularly exchanged letters through the beginning of his service, but a few months ago, the letters stopped. He’d been assured that mail was spotty on the warfront, and he kept sending letters, just in case.

The door to the parlor had opened, and Steve whirled, already grinning, but it was not Bucky who stood there. It was his mother, her face tight and pinched. Not the face of a woman grateful to have her son home.

“I’m sorry, Steven, dear,” she said. “He’s still resting. It was a long trip back. I’m sure he’ll call on you as soon as he feels up to visitors.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Steve said, even though he’d spent most of his life resting, and he couldn’t imagine needing to rest so badly that he wouldn’t want to see Bucky for the first time in a year. He rode home to wait.

And he waited. Five days later, and there had been no visit from Bucky, no note, no message at all. Steve tried to pen his own note, and he crumpled up paper after paper. Each one seemed too sharp, too raw. There had been no promises between them, nothing decided. But Steve had…he’d been under the impression that what was unspoken was mutual. Now that Bucky was back, it was like the cauldron of his feelings was bubbling over once again. Finally, he settled for  _Looking forward to enjoying your company. Please do not abstain out of any concern that you will fail to amuse me; I would be a hypocrite were I not happy to merely sit at your bedside_. 

He sent the note with one of his footmen, who promised it delivered. And yet, he received no response.

He began to ride past the Barnes house in the mornings, in case Bucky were to be taking a turn in the garden or headed for his stable. He would pause and squint up at the windows he knew to be Bucky’s chambers, looking for any movement. Once, he thought he saw the curtains flutter, but his eyesight had never been more than fair.

There were rumors, now. Whispers through town, the sort that servants passed from house to house. They said that Bucky was unwell, both in body and in spirit. They said that war had changed him. Twisted him. The rumors made Steve’s blood boil and his heart ache, to think that people could turn so quickly on one of their own, on a soldier, no less. A hero.

It was nearing on a month since Bucky had first come home when a note was delivered to the Rogers’ estate. Steve was in his office reviewing the accounts when it was brought to him, and he nearly ripped it in half in his haste to open it.

 _I would not dream to call you a hypocrite_ , it said,  _but you may not feel the same of me. I will see you if you will come._

Steve went directly to the stable.

It felt almost surreal to walk up the stairs to the Barnes house again. The last time had been such a crushing disappointment, and he hoped that it would not repeat. But when he greeted the butler, he was led not to the parlor or any of the receiving rooms, but directly up the stairs toward Bucky’s bedroom. The butler rapped twice on the door, and a voice from within said, “Send him in.”

Steve knew that it was Bucky’s voice. It had been so long since he’d heard it, but he couldn’t forget it, even if it sounded different now. Rougher, like it had been long unused.

The butler opened the door and nodded Steve through. Inside, the room was dark. The curtains were drawn against the fading twilight, leaving a hazy dimness throughout. There was just one small lamp lit on the bedside table.

“Bucky?” Steve squinted. He could just make out the shape of Bucky, sitting up in bed. The light on the opposite side of the bed only served to cast him into deeper shadow outside the circle of its glow. “Didn’t you tell me I’d go blind, sitting in the dark?”

Bucky snorted. “That’s because you were trying to draw in it. My eyes are unstrained.”

“Good.” Steve could hardly believe he was in the same room as Bucky again, finally. After waiting so long, it felt wrong, somehow. Even though he could see Bucky sitting there, could hear him speak, it didn’t feel like Bucky. He took a step closer anyway, determined. “I missed you, Buck. I don’t know why you asked me to stay away so long.”

Bucky let out a low breath. “Because I didn’t want to see you.”

Steve stopped in his advance, his heart thudding in his chest. “What?”

“I didn’t–” Bucky stopped himself, and when he spoke next, Steve could hear how difficult it was for him, like each word was forced out. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Steve frowned and he started to walk forward again. “You’ve seen me at my worst. There’s nothing that could–”

“Swear it,” Bucky said, suddenly. He sounded desperate, and it wasn’t something he’d ever heard in Bucky’s voice before. He sounded afraid, and it turned Steve’s stomach. “Swear you won’t think any differently of me.”

Steve didn’t hesitate for a second. “I swear.”

Bucky was quiet as Steve walked the rest of the way, approaching the bed with anxiety building low in his gut. When he reached the edge of the bed, Bucky shifted, moving into the light. Steve, to his credit, didn’t shout. He did bite hard on the inside of his cheek.

Bucky was shirtless, which once upon a time would have been enough to have Steve pink and studiously looking away. But he couldn’t look away now, and he was in no danger of blushing. Bucky’s left arm was gone, and his shoulder and chest were a mess of scars, angry-looking raised tissue. But it wasn’t the scars that made Steve want to turn around and run. It was Bucky’s face. The dark circles under bloodshot eyes, his generous mouth turned down and tight at the corners like he was even now gritting his teeth through incredible pain. His hair was overlong and lank. He looked like a haunted man, and Steve dropped to his knees beside the bed.

“Bucky, god. What happened?”

“War,” Bucky said, with a smile that was more like a grimace. “It wasn’t so glorious as the books made it sound.”

They’d spent so many hours poring over novels of heroism as boys, playing at being soldiers. Steve had been so bitterly envious when Bucky went off to war. He toyed with a fold in the sheet. “I wish I’d been there.”

“Don’t,” Bucky said, sharply. His eyes were wide and wild, and he twitched, like he’d meant to grab onto Steve with the arm that was no longer there. He must have seen how startled Steve looked, because he took a moment to school his expression, calm himself before speaking again. “The only thing that kept me breathing most days was knowing you were home and safe.”

Steve didn’t know what to say. He stayed silently at the side of Bucky’s bed, until Bucky spoke again.

“I’m not the same as I was.” His voice was flat, as though he’d rehearsed this, planned each word with care. “It’s not just the…my malady. I’m a burden, and unsuitable as a match, and I would understand if you–”

It was Steve’s turn to cut him off. “Don’t you dare say it." 

"I cannot marry you now,” Bucky said. It was the first time either of them had said the words, and it sounded like each one had been wrenched from his chest. He looked away from Steve, staring out into the darkness of his room. “I have nothing to offer you but pain.”

“If you think that I would marry you because of what you could _o_ _ffer_ me, then perhaps you’re right, and I shouldn’t.” Steve frowned up at him. “But luckily, I am the only one who decides who I’ll marry, and I have long since decided to marry you, you idiot.” Bucky looked back at him, goggling, and Steve found the fierceness of his anger fade a bit. “If you wished to marry me, that is.”

“Of course I do,” he said, and Steve’s heart swelled. “But you can’t, Steve, you’d be tying yourself to a useless, broken man.”

Steve huffed, and he found the courage to reach out and rest his hand on Bucky’s knees, squeezing it through the sheet. “Because I’m a prize specimen of health.”

“That’s different,” Bucky started, and Steve shook his head and squeezed again.

“I love you,” he said. It felt like a weight had been lifted, to finally say it, explicitly and out loud. He smiled at how good it felt, and said it again just for a second rush of lightness. “I love you. And if you love me, then we should be married.”

“I do.” Bucky’s words were soft, but his eyes were bright again, and his gaze said more than words ever could. 


End file.
